METRO - Alasdair Duncan (UQP)

I've been reading quite a bit of 'Young Adult fiction' in recent weeks, partially because of interviews I've done with authors such as Randa Abdel-Fattah on SmartArts, and partially because I've resurrected a couple of old ideas for a YA novel myself and fused them together into a new concept (but more of that later - I don't want to jinx any possible outcomes by discussing it too soon).

The latest book I've finished reading is Metro, the 'difficult' second novel by Brisbane author Alasdair Duncan. Arguably Metro is adult fiction rather than YA, given Duncan's frank approach to his subject matter, but like Adam Ford's debut novel Man Bites Dog, which covers similar ground, his exploration of post-adolescent/early 20-something life is written in a relatively simplistic way, sugesting it is more pitched at younger readers than those for whom the angst of their 20's is already comfortably (or even uncomfortably) removed.

I met Duncan briefly at Straight Out Of Brisbane a couple of years ago, hot on the heels of the publication of his first novel, Sushi Central, also published by the University of Queensland Press (UQP). It wasn't a good meeting - at the last minute, as the then Artistic Director of Express Media, I'd been asked to introduce a reading of 'hot young authors' from UQP, all of whom gave off a certain air of contrived arrogance that was best described as 'I've been published by a mainstream publishing house and the rest of you are only zinesters and bloggers, so we're all hopelessly better than you." I ground my teeth and got on with the job, but the meeting didn't inspire me to read Sushi Central.

That said, from interviews and reviews I've read on-line, it has a couple of things in common with Metro: it's set in Brisbane, the central protagonist's sexuality is a pivotal plot element, and said main character is a rich, arrogant, spoilt cunt.

That's one of the problems I had reading Metro.

Liam Kelly, the narrator, is extremely unlikeable. He's a rich, spoilt, ex-private school boy turned university student whose life is already laid out before him; school, business, success. The fly in the ointment is that Liam, despite having had a long-term girlfriend since high school, despite his continuous use of homophobic slurs, is secretly fucking around with guys on the side.

"Okay. So I have been with guys before, but, in the end, it's about the sex - you know, they're into it, they seem completely grateful for the chance to suck my dick, and really, what's the big deal? I get to come, they get a story about going down on a hot straight guy to tell their faggot friends, and essentially it's all forgotten about as quickly as it happened. It's not like I'm into guys. I mean, I'm not. It sounds harsh I guess, but I'm not a faggot, and when you're in a certain position there are some things you can get away with even if you're not necessarily meant to. Lots of guys do things like this. Believe me."

Over the 297 pages of this novel, Liam sexually abuses an array of vulnerable young men - including the emo younger brother of his best friend; cheats on his girlfriend while she's overseas; takes shitloads of drugs; and references various 'cool' bands and fashion labels in an endless parade of namedropping which the author perhaps intends should indicate his narrator's superficial nature, but which comes across instead as poorly aping the literary style of Bret Easton Ellis or Chuck Palahniuk.

Liam's array of equally superficial friends are poorly defined, lacking characterisation and coming across as virtually interchangeable, although it's possible that this could have been a deliberate move by the author, an indictment of their empty lives and personalities. If you Google yourself, Alasdair, and read this review, please do let me know.

My greatest criticism of this novel is that nothing really happens in it. Yes, people die, there are AIDS scares and the hint of true love and fights and the probable suicide of a best friend - but by the time the book ends, none of this seems to have impacted on the main character. Again, perhaps that was the author's intent: perhaps people like Liam Kelly do sail through life, protected by wealth and privalege from events that would have a far greater impact on lesser mortals; but real life is not fiction. In fiction, I want character development, I want progression, I want change. I didn't get it in this book.

Ultimately, the story of Liam Kelly, as told in Alasdair Duncan's Metro, is superficial, empty and pointless. Sadly, save for its attempt to explore the lives of closeted bisexual men who are trapped in a circle of denial, abuse and privalege, so too is Duncan's novel itself.


Footnote: While certain elements of this book, such as its central character's closeted bisexuality and its Brisbane setting, were uncomfortably close to home given certain events in my personal life this week, I don't think they had any bearing on my reaction to the book itself, and especially not to the author's writing style.